Friday, September 17, 2004

 

For all you pirate poets, here's Blackbeard and his ship, the Queen Anne's Revenge, carved into an emu egg. Bet you didn't know they could do that, huh?

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Thursday, September 16, 2004

 

I think my writer's block is over. I have a new project: Love Flarf. Poems about robots, Steve McQueen, mini-golf, and Speed Racer have already been penned, in addition to the monstrousity immediately below.

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Tuesday, September 14, 2004

 

I have insane writer's block, so you get crazy monster flarf.


Monster Island Domestic Drama (Already in Progress)


We also learn that all the earth's monsters
Have been collected and put onto one island.
The monsters will fight for you, if you've got
Cash. You and your buddies can relieve yourselves
Of whatever assumptions of complexity and just
Go in pounding each other with monsters. "Arggh!
You will pay dearly," yell the monsters when
They lose. Their monster teammates yell back,
"Arggh!" The monsters are further divided into
More monsters, into uber-monsters, hemi-monsters,
Boss-monsters, loser-monsters, shoe-monsters, mom-
N-pop monsters, but no lame monsters like the blob.
Monster Island is spawning quite a lucrative
Marketing empire: for the bored girlfriends of rich
Guys who back teams of badass fighting monsters
There are boutiques that pop up, selling custom
Monster skins. Go get yourself something blue
And slick, something with flames up and down
The legs, a far cry from the green and warty monsters
Of yesteryear. Have a monster martini. It's got
Campari. Have a monster bean bag toy. Collect 'em
All, and then just try to get them home on the plane.
You'll brush a tear from your botoxed eye, saying,
"I didn't even have room for the Flame Swordsman."
Meantime, your playboy husband is having the mansion
Vetted one last time for monsters; he's gotten twitchy
Since losing 40 grand to a team of mean-as-hell,
Leathing-wearing monsters. You're sure there's no
Monsters here? He prods the guy from the agency, while
Thumbing through a leaflet warning: every day,
At least three people are turned into monsters. Your
Toddler asks at bedtime, "Mommy? Will there be monsters
That are very, very large?" "Oh, honey," you say, thinking
About one sexy-yet-evil croco-man and his cool
Campari-scented sigh, "Honey. There already are."

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Simpsons' writer's children's book labeled porn. That's a lot of possessive apostrophes, huh? Anyway, the end to this sad tale is worthy of a Simpsons plotline in of itself. Make Marge or Lisa the one who writes the book, and -bam!- you've got a show.

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I rediscovered my vaunted list of Marianne Moore car names last night, tucked, predictably enough, inside her collected works. Some favorites:

The Titanium Rumplefin
The Teleconsortium
The Egregious Fillip
The Licentiad
The Transpangolin
The Tetrahedonist
The Humulene Humpenscrump
The Dynamic Pea-Hen
The Quotillion Extreme
The Prestidigicrimp
The Antibacterial Lookdown
The Priorly Asterwhack
The Wheeled Fardangle
The Whompfaloon

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Monday, September 13, 2004

 

Three poems up in the Muse Apprentice Guild . . . two rather old ones and a Calamity. Huzzah!

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Workin' workin' workin' on pirate poems. Although it doesn't tell you how fast you need to go to escape a booty-laden hijacked Spanish galleon off the leeward side of Grand Cayman in approx. 1575, The Reality of Running Away from Stuff is very informative on how fast you'll need to go to get away from other things.

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